Lynda Curnyn - Confessions Of An Ex-Girlfriend

How was I going to compete with that? Me, with my scuffed pumps pulled from the bottom of the closet and phantom boy friend?

“Looking sharp,” came Marcy Keller’s voice as she popped her head around the wall of my cubicle and gave me a conspiratorial wink.

Feeling horribly grateful for the compliment, even coming from a woman more known for her calculation than her camaraderie, I actually smiled at her, which gave her just enough invitation to slide her spindly form into my guest chair.

“So you’re finally going to do it, huh?” she asked, in a kind of harsh whisper that suggested I was going to take a machine gun to my colleagues rather than go in to my superior to ask for a promotion.

“No better time than the present,” I replied with false bravado.

“I agree,” she said, nodding vigorously, eyebrows arched above her big black frames. “Especially since Rebecca has already put together her clips and her résumé and handed them in.”

“She has?”

“Of course.”

I glanced over the gaping “to be filed” box where I had stuffed everything of personal relevance, from bedraggled clips and old vacation memos to takeout menus for local eateries. “Do you think I should put together something before I go in to Caroline?”

Her gaze followed mine to the pile of papers, and I saw her eyes widen briefly. “Nah,” she replied, swatting her hand through the air in a gesture that suggested I was worrying for nothing. “That would take too long. You’re best off going in there and at least letting her know you are interested. Then, afterward, you could pull together something for when you go in to see Patricia.”

Suddenly I saw the benefits of befriending Marcy. She was a wealth of information on how to negotiate the politics of getting promoted. I hadn’t even thought of putting together my clips. I just assumed Patricia would have seen my work at one point or another. I mean, she is the editor-in-chief of this fine periodical.

“And I would probably try to include some clips outside of what you’ve done for Bridal Best,” Marcy continued, as if reading the unasked question that lingered in the back of my mind. “I think Rebecca included a bunch of stuff from that trade newspaper she used to work for.”

Panic began to invade me. Rebecca had other clips. What did I have, other than a few half-finished short stories and some self-deprecating poetry I had written during a previous post-breakup pity party? “Other clips?”

“You know, stuff you might have written freelance, or in a previous job,” Marcy continued, then sucked her cheeks in when realization struck. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve never had a previous job.”

She was right, other than my stint at waitressing and a run of office temp jobs that had resulted in nothing but callused feet and bad fiction. Even my illustrious career at Bridal Best was really a result of random luck and Caroline’s somewhat misguided belief in me.

“Have you ever done any freelance?” Marcy was asking now. She actually seemed really concerned for me, which I found oddly heartening. Maybe I’d had Marcy pegged all wrong.

“Not really,” I replied, my confidence slumping to an all-time low.

She studied me for a moment, as if trying to assign a promotability value to me and coming up short. Then she shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said, standing up. “I mean, after all, Rebecca was working on a trade publication anyway.” Her nose wrinkled, as if the idea that anyone would work for an industry newspaper that languished on the desks of some back office somewhere, rather than a magazine being prominently displayed on the racks at your local newsstand, was somehow distasteful.

“I guess,” I replied, unconvinced.

Glancing at her watch, she said, “Well, duty calls. Knock ’em dead, Emma.” Then after skipping somewhat merrily out of my cube, she popped her head back in, “Oh, and good luck.”

You’ll need it. The implication she had not voiced sped through my mind nonetheless as I stared at her retreating back.

Confession: My life has become some sort of inside joke—and I’m the only one who doesn’t get it.

“Come in, come in,” Caroline invited, once I finally gathered up the courage to actually go in and make my now somewhat pathetic-seeming bid for the senior features editor position. Thank God, I had Caroline to practice on first, before having to make my case to Patricia. Ever since I had come to Bridal Best, Caroline had been my champion, lavishing praise on my early writing efforts and encouraging me to go for the contributing-editor position when it opened up. Now, as I headed into her sunlit, plant-filled office, the shelves overflowing with everything from the international dolls she collected to photos of her and Miles, her husband, and their three picture-perfect children, I was glad she was my manager. But as I seated myself before her, it suddenly occurred to me that the theory I had recently constructed of the solid bond formation between Sandra and Rebecca didn’t hold water when it came to Caroline and me. There was no way I was the miniversion of Caroline, with her warm, loving home in Connecticut strewn, I was sure, with the hand-made crafts she excelled at and smelling of the fresh-baked cookies she tucked into her children’s lunch bags before sending them off to posh private schools carefully chosen according to each gifted child’s unique talents. Even her husband, a general contractor who was ever ready to build a new wing onto their already sprawling home to accommodate the next adorable addition to the Jamison family, seemed from some male mold I had yet to encounter in my own life. Not that I had ever been invited to said happy home or met the husband and kids, but I had gathered much from Caroline’s softly spoken stories at the communal lunch room table of the joys of family life. Even now, she was radiantly pregnant with Perfect Baby Number Four beneath her floral and feminine maternity dress. Everyone was always faintly amazed at how she returned to the office baby after baby, ever ready to do her part for the greater good of Bridal Best.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Caroline said now, once I had made myself comfortable in the chair parked next to her wide desk, which was a maze of carefully stacked papers. Somehow, no matter how busy Caroline was, she was always prepared to offer you a chair and an ear to discuss just about anything that was on your mind, whether righteous indignation at your piece getting bumped from an issue, or dismay of a more personal nature, should you dare to share it with it a superior. Not that I ever did. And I wouldn’t dare share my recent Derrick Disaster with anyone in the office now that I was allegedly making so much progress in my life that a pro motion seemed like the next, natural thing. After all, whoever heard of a disgruntled editor and new member of the Recently Dumped making senior features editor at the nation’s most comprehensive guide to happily-ever-after?

“Did you want to talk to me about something?” I asked now, worried suddenly that Caroline, in her gentle way, was about to inform me that she had realized how seriously lacking I was in most areas of my life and work.

“No, no. Nothing specific. It’s just we haven’t really spoken in a while, and I was wondering how things were going. You know, sometimes with all the flurry of deadline pressures and, well, life, we forget to take stock of things. How are you?”

“Good, good. Great, in fact,” I replied, striving for the tone of a woman in charge of her life and ready to tackle any professional challenge that came her way.

“Wonderful.” She smiled, her hand going to her softly rounded abdomen and caressing it gently.

“How’s everything with you? Feeling okay, with the baby and all?”